"I most certainly do not want you to stop," she says, smiling. "In other words, to be sure that we're clear: keep going."
And just in case there was even the remotest question, she takes his hand and slides it further up, to where his fingertips will find smooth silk under her dress.
Well, that's certainly a signal that cannot and should not be misinterpreted. He brushes his thumb along the silky fabric, grinning as he loops a finger around the hem to pull it down.
"Now who was doing the planning, hm?" he asks as he pulls away and sinks down to his knees.
"What can I say? I like to be ready for anything," she says. She lets her knees fall open slightly, watching him, her gaze heavy-lidded. She reaches down and trails her fingers along his jawline.
"Anything, huh?" He hikes her dress up to her hips and pulls that silk down and off, drawing her hips close to him so he can press a kiss to the inside of her thigh.
"Anything." A small, breathy laugh; her fingers trail through his hair with just a fleeting suggestion of a tug. Not quite a don't-keep-me-waiting, because she's enjoying the teasing. For now.
And he enjoys doing the teasing. He takes his time, gently guiding her down closer to the edge of the couch. His nose presses against soft skin, tasting her once with his tongue.
Sheehan is a very good listener. He adjusts himself slightly on his knees, making himself comfortable, and joins fingers to tongue, listening for all of those lovely, encouraging sounds.
Oh he's good. She'll never tell him, but generally she hasn't got the highest expectations for American men of his vintage. He's exceeding them very well.
Her legs go around his shoulders and then her back arches; she cries out sharply and lets out a long, satisfied groan.
Yes. That'll do nicely. She laughs, low in her throat.
When she's caught her breath, she sits up and leans in to kiss him. "Pleased with yourself, are you?" She slides her hand down his chest, then lower, brushing the front of his trousers to discover what's there and tease him a little as well.
He sits up, brushing a thumb across her lips and humming a bit. "I don't know," he says, eyes flicking down to her hand where he knows he's already aching. "Figured I earned it."
Una now has the highly pleasant dilemma of deciding what she wants to do with him next. She forestalls the decision for a moment by climbing onto his lap and kissing him thoroughly while she gets him out of his shirt—and if he wants to finish the work of getting her out of her dress, she won't stop him.
Then—all right. She kisses her way down his chest and slides off his lap, and now she's the one on her knees, unfastening his trousers.
The indecision would be terrible - would be, if not for the fact that he keeps his hands properly occupied with the task of getting her out of that dress and finally seeing what he had been imagining for only some of the night.
He did start out with innocent intentions, after all.
"I really haven't done enough to deserve this," he mutters, sitting up just a touch, toying with the ends of her hair.
"One rarely gets what one deserves," she says—a sentence that would be rather bleak in any other context. But in this moment, now that she has him teasingly in hand, it's another, much more pleasant sort of promise. She only torments him a little while longer before she takes him into her mouth.
He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding so tightly, her tormenting the most delicious thing in the moment. He ghosts fingers along her hair, murmuring encouraging noises that he will later not remember.
She takes her time, as this is not her endgame at all, and she's careful not to get him too far along too quickly. When she thinks she's done enough mischief, she lets him go and stands, smiling, before she straddles him on the couch, only just touching him.
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Lucky for both of them that she decided on the good lingerie this evening, she thinks, with no small amount of hilarity.
"You seem to have a plan," she murmurs against his lips.
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"I most certainly do not want you to stop," she says, smiling. "In other words, to be sure that we're clear: keep going."
And just in case there was even the remotest question, she takes his hand and slides it further up, to where his fingertips will find smooth silk under her dress.
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"Now who was doing the planning, hm?" he asks as he pulls away and sinks down to his knees.
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"What can I say? I like to be ready for anything," she says. She lets her knees fall open slightly, watching him, her gaze heavy-lidded. She reaches down and trails her fingers along his jawline.
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"Anything." A small, breathy laugh; her fingers trail through his hair with just a fleeting suggestion of a tug. Not quite a don't-keep-me-waiting, because she's enjoying the teasing. For now.
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"I think I can do anything," he murmurs.
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She shivers at the touch and there's a noise halfway between a sigh and a moan.
"Well, go on then," she says. "Show me."
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It does mean he is far too occupied to reply.
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As if she was going to complain about that. She sighs and leans back, murmuring soft encouragement as he finds the touches she likes best.
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Oh he's good. She'll never tell him, but generally she hasn't got the highest expectations for American men of his vintage. He's exceeding them very well.
Her legs go around his shoulders and then her back arches; she cries out sharply and lets out a long, satisfied groan.
Yes. That'll do nicely. She laughs, low in her throat.
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He uses his free hand to stroke the outside of her leg with gentle fingers, pulling away after that laugh. He grins, peering up at her with a smirk.
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When she's caught her breath, she sits up and leans in to kiss him. "Pleased with yourself, are you?" She slides her hand down his chest, then lower, brushing the front of his trousers to discover what's there and tease him a little as well.
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"Earned it and then some," she says, her touch now a little firmer and more insistent. "Why don't you sit back and let me take care of you, hm?"
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"Mind if I get up off my knees?"
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"Make yourself comfortable, darling." She lets him go and leans back, so that he can sit where he pleases.
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Una now has the highly pleasant dilemma of deciding what she wants to do with him next. She forestalls the decision for a moment by climbing onto his lap and kissing him thoroughly while she gets him out of his shirt—and if he wants to finish the work of getting her out of her dress, she won't stop him.
Then—all right. She kisses her way down his chest and slides off his lap, and now she's the one on her knees, unfastening his trousers.
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He did start out with innocent intentions, after all.
"I really haven't done enough to deserve this," he mutters, sitting up just a touch, toying with the ends of her hair.
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"One rarely gets what one deserves," she says—a sentence that would be rather bleak in any other context. But in this moment, now that she has him teasingly in hand, it's another, much more pleasant sort of promise. She only torments him a little while longer before she takes him into her mouth.
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She takes her time, as this is not her endgame at all, and she's careful not to get him too far along too quickly. When she thinks she's done enough mischief, she lets him go and stands, smiling, before she straddles him on the couch, only just touching him.
"All right?" she whispers.
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